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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28399425">Cats in the Cradle</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_medusa/pseuds/cosmic_medusa'>cosmic_medusa</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, John Winchester Tries, Protective Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:00:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,735</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28399425</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_medusa/pseuds/cosmic_medusa</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A reimagining of the first five seasons, where John lives, and isn’t about to let his children’s future be determined by anyone but him. Set immediately after <a href="https://supernatural.fandom.com/wiki/Dead_Man%27s_Blood">Dead Man’s Blood</a>.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Cats in the Cradle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This isn’t a “good” John or “bad” John story: rather, it’s a John trying to do good and, per usual, being terrible at it. Plenty of Winchester bro love down the line.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They book one room: two double beds and one crappy cot. Sam stands watching as Dean puts Sam’s duffel on the bed farthest from the door, the protocol they’ve been following all their lives. The hellish cots used to be Sam’s, the rare times Dad was there to claim a bed for himself, but Dean had swapped during Sam’s 16 year old growth spurt, when his whole body ached and his legs hung uselessly off the edge of the mattress.</p><p>It was so familiar, so normal—their version of it, anyway—that he had a sudden, bizarre feeling that Stanford had never happened.</p><p>“Yo, Major Tom!” Dean was snapping his fingers. “How’s the head?”</p><p>“Yeah—listening. Fine.” He crossed the room to sit next to his duffel.</p><p>“Here’s one thing I didn’t miss,” Dean groused, bouncing on the rollaway.</p><p>“Rock, paper, scissors for it?”</p><p>“Bite me.”</p><p>Sam smiled. “I can take it. I’m not going to sleep much anyway.”</p><p>“Forget it. I, for one, suffer in silence. Not in the mood to hear you bitching for the next week.” He got to his feet. “Salt?”</p><p>Sam dug out one of the Morton containers and tossed it over to him. He had a clear memory of standing at eye-level with the ledge while Dean poured salt, aching for a turn, wondering when Dad would trust <em>him</em> with securing the room. Even when they were teens, John always made Dean check Sam’s work.</p><p>“Alright,” John said, shutting the door. “You need to tell me, in detail, about any potential run-ins you think you may have had, especially with this airplane-demon you mentioned." </p><p>“And you need to tell us everything you have on this thing,” Dean said, with an authority he never used on their father. Sam and John both turned to him in surprise. “Cards on the table,” Dean said. “<em>All</em> of them.”</p><p>John glanced at Sam, who turned and set his jaw. That defiance he was used to, but Dean's was new. His elder was normally easy-going and forgiving, but it seemed his long absence had pushed even his patience.</p><p>“Fine,” John agreed, and grabbed his second, smaller duffel. He reached into the front pouch and tossed a packet of thumbtacks to Sam. “Give me a hand pinning up.”</p><p>There were maps, charts, weather graphs, photocopied pages of lore, newspaper articles, photos of burnt houses, and a carefully written timeline. John followed behind them, writing and attaching numbered post-it notes, occasionally relocating a clipping or two.</p><p>“Okay,” he finally said, some fifteen minutes of silence later. “This is nearly everything. Every home I’ve been able to trace that fits the pattern. All the signs I’ve identified so far—cattle mutilations, electrical storms, temperature fluctuations, possible possessions. Signs show up about 12 hours before house goes up in flames. No natural reason.”</p><p>“These things happened in Lawrence?” Dean asked.</p><p>“And Palo Alto.”</p><p>“And each time…a woman died?” Sam asked.</p><p>“Not always.”</p><p>“What’s it want them for?” Dean said quickly.</p><p>“I don’t think it’s about the women,” John admitted. “I think it’s about their children.” John picked up a large, poster sized paper, and crossed to pin it up himself. “Each of the families had an infant, six months old the day of the fire. These are some of the ones I’ve been able to identify.”</p><p>There were names, addresses, birthdates, current locations…and DMV headshots. There was Max, Andy, Ansem, Ava, and a host of others Sam had never seen, though a strange tug of recognition rang through his head.</p><p>“We’ve met some of them,” Dean said.</p><p>“You think all of them have…powers?” Sam chanced.</p><p>“The ones I’ve found have," John said. "And then ones <em>you’ve</em> found have.”</p><p>“He’s building an army," Sam gaped. "And we're its soldiers."</p><p>“Sam, c’mon,” Dean snapped. “A bunch of spoon benders aren’t going to get far.”</p><p>“You saw what Max and Ansem could do. Even Andy. And Ava and I can see threats to the others. Put us all together…”</p><p>“And what? You’re a bunch of kids.”</p><p>“We’re 22, Dean, we’re not <em>kids</em>.”</p><p>“What do you mean, you can see threats to others?” John asked. Sam’s eyes flew to Dean, who glanced carefully between him and John before giving his brother a slight nod.</p><p>“I have these…visions,” Sam said slowly. “And sometimes…they come true.”</p><p>“They started out as nightmares, then started happening when he’s awake,” Dean explained. “That’s how we found the other psychic kids.”</p><p>“Except for Ava. She found me.”</p><p>“Pal of yours, Gordon Walker? Tried to take them both out.”</p><p>“He’s in jail now,” Sam assured.</p><p>“When were you going to tell me about this?” John barked at Dean. Dean cocked an eyebrow.</p><p>“When was I supposed to? You never pick up your damn phone.”</p><p>“So you leave a message. You tell me your brother is manifesting psychic powers connected to the demon and you go to ground.”</p><p>“Don’t blame him,” Sam snapped.</p><p>“I’ll get to you in a minute.”</p><p>“We’ve been doing the best we can,” Dean growled. “We’ve had nothing to go on. We’ve been going in to every hunt blind, because that’s how you left it. That’s how you <em>wanted</em> it.”</p><p>“I tried to keep you on the move so you’d be well out of the demon’s reach. Here you’re telling me it’s been in contact with you.”</p><p>“The demon hasn’t been near him. I’ve made sure of it.”</p><p>“We met a psychic in Lawrence—Missouri Mosley,” Sam interjected. “She knew I had power, but she didn't’ feel it was demonic.”</p><p>“Enough,” John barked. “From here on in, Sam, you don’t go anywhere alone. Dean, no contact with other hunters. This stays in the family.”</p><p>“Dad, we should check in with Missouri,” Dean protested. “Maybe she knows how Sam can access his visions without it hurting.”</p><p>“Sam isn’t going to try to access anything. This power is connected to a demon—it’s evil. Pure and simple.”</p><p>“It’s <em>not</em> that simple,” Dean snapped, gravitating toward his brother.</p><p>“This isn’t my call, boys. And it sure as hell isn’t yours.”</p><p>“Dad, if I don’t understand what this is or how it works, then the demon can use it against you,” Sam pointed out.</p><p>“The demon isn’t our only enemy.” John reminded them. “If Gordon was hunting psychics, than a lot of others are going to know. And about two months ago, some of these kids started turning up dead. Stab wound, right to the heart. Silver blade.”</p><p>“Hunters,” Dean realized.</p><p>“Seems like.”</p><p>Sam felt a strange, prickling heat at the back of his neck and had the sudden urge to laugh. Demons, police, hunters, ghosts, ghouls—what <em>didn’t</em> want him dead? What, for that matter, wanted him <em>alive</em>?</p><p>“If we gank the demon, will that call off the dogs?” Dean asked.</p><p>“Let’s focus on killing it first. Then the fallout.” John reached into his pocket and handed a folded paper to his eldest. “That’s an ingredient list. There’s a new age store about an hour from here. Talk to the owner—she’s got a private stash for hunters. She’ll give you directions to a pawn shop that’ll have the rest. Tell the clerk you’re interested in vinyls and you’d kill for a copy of Bad Moon on the Rise. He’ll buzz you into the back.”</p><p>“Got it,” Dean said.</p><p>“Sam, I want to see how you handle the weapons. You’re in good shape, but you’re out of practice.”</p><p>“No—Dad, you just said we shouldn’t go anywhere alone,” Sam protested.</p><p>“I said <em>you</em> aren’t going anywhere alone. Dean’s got this.”</p><p>“It’s a milk run, Sammy,” Dean smiled.</p><p>“I should go with you.”</p><p>“You want in on this hunt, you get a range set up. Firing in 15,” John ordered. “There’s a lake a quarter mile uproad—set up nearby.”</p><p>Sam turned to Dean, the boys seeming to have an entire conversation in silence. They’d done that for years, but John had never felt it being used against him before. Whatever was said in private, Dean always fell in line with him, and forced Sammy along.</p><p>It was disconcerting to realize he’d lost faith with Dean. His eldest had always been his staunchest ally—through benders, beatings, burglaries.</p><p>Now, it seemed the demon wasn’t only influencing his youngest.</p><p>Sam grabbed extra ammunition and loped outside. Dean took the list and shifted through his backpack for some backup fake credit cards. John sighed and approached him slowly.</p><p>“How’s he been on hunts?” he asked.</p><p>“Good.” Dean shoved some cards and cash into his leather pocket. “He’s kept in good shape. Smart as ever. Learned some new search tricks at school.”</p><p>“Handling weapons okay?”</p><p>“Great. Saved my ass more than once.” Dean lifted his chin. “He’s still Sam, Dad. If anything, he’s improved. He’s been on his own, and he’s way more confident than the awkward beanpole he used to be.”</p><p>“Good.” John thrust his hands in his own pockets. “You be careful, hear? Make up some excuse for why you’re hunting. Charm them all you want, but don’t let on what we’re really after. Make sure you’re not followed.”</p><p>“I know the drill.”</p><p>“Dean.” His eldest stiffened. “I’m sorry I wasn’t in touch. But I was around. Did my best to keep up. I couldn’t risk this thing going after you to stop me.”</p><p>“I get it,” Dean sighed. “Sammy does too. He’s just freaked out. We all are.”</p><p>“We’re going to put this thing down. And when it’s over, whatever this has done to Sammy, we’ll deal with.”</p><p>“Yes sir.”</p><p>John nodded to the door. “Get gone.”</p><p>***</p><p>Sam had never been known as ‘the athletic’ one of the Winchester brothers, forever unable to match Dean in terms of strength or toughness, but he’d always kept in good shape. He could outrun his older brother, even before he surpassed him in height, and his lither form had made him a good climber. He’d kept up running at Stanford, and joined as many games going on the quad as he could, trying to keep himself quick and strong.</p><p>He’d just enjoyed the intellectual aspects of hunting more than Dean had. The elder Winchester had always had a lot of energy, and the adrenaline of a hunt only fed it. Dean found his focus when he was stalking prey, waiting for the showdown, primed and battle-ready, while Sam found his deep in lore, putting together ancient pieces of info and realizing he’d solved a puzzle.</p><p>But he also found it on the range: off in the quiet, in the fresh air, gun secure on his steadying fist. Shooting took the same focus and patience studying Latin or Greek did, and there was no greater feeling than lining up and watching a bullet go right where he’d planned.</p><p>He heard his father before he saw him: John Winchester’s heavy boots and steady tread was unmistakable. Sam spotted him walking close to the lake’s edge, leaving bootprints, usually something he’d avoid. Sam pretended not to notice and lined up at one of his makeshift targets, letting three bullets soar right to the center, chipping wood and stone as he did.</p><p>“Good form, son,” John said, a slight smile creeping out from under his normal glower.</p><p>“I went to a firing range near campus sometimes. Tried to keep up where I could.”</p><p>“I know.” John shoved his hands in his pockets. “Saw you outside it once.”</p><p>Sam shuffled, suddenly awkward. “You guys could have told me when you were nearby. I would’ve...it would’ve been nice to see you.”</p><p>“I wanted to,” John admitted. “Went to one of their football games and Dean almost talked me into it. But I spotted you, in a group, and I knew...you couldn’t keep up normal with us. Your brother and I are about as far from ‘normal’ as you can get.”</p><p>Sam swallowed. “Least you’re not psychic freaks.”</p><p>“Don’t let Missouri catch you thinking that way.”</p><p>Sam flipped the safety on and lowered his gun, tucking it back into his pants before turning to meet his father’s eyes. “If we kill the demon...do you think my visions will stop?”</p><p>“I don’t know, son.” John’s face softened. “All I can do is make sure no one else has to go through this." </p><p>Sam swallowed over the lump in his throat. “If demons are real, then hell must be real. And if hell is, heaven must be. It can’t just be evil working here.”</p><p>“If it is, I’ll never see it. But you boys might.”</p><p>“Don’t say that. You’ve saved a lot of people, Dad.”</p><p>“I know what I am. What I’ve done. What I <em>will</em> do. There’s nothing good waiting for me. That’s okay. Killing that thing, protecting you boys...that’s all that matters.” John reaches out and placed a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder. “I’m proud of you, Sammy. I wish I could’ve been, really been, the way I would have if life had gone as it should.”</p><p>“You were right,” Sam admitted. “I was never going to be normal. It was stupid to try.”</p><p>“I’m glad you did. I’m glad you got to be happy. For just a little.”</p><p>Tears filled Sam's eyes. “I wasn't always unhappy with you and Dean. There was good there. Even when I wanted to kill you, I’d have died fighting anything else that tried.”</p><p>John smiled warmly. “I know you would have.”</p><p>Sam smiled back: these moments of connecting with his father had been so rare, he felt spoiled by the second in as many days. He’d had to leave in order for this moment to happen, and he couldn't regret it. His efforts weren’t in vain. He’d grown into himself, become his own man, one who was finally capable of understanding his father. Maybe his father could finally understand him too. Maybe Dean was right, and they could be a family again. Maybe—</p><p>John landed what felt like a punch in the middle of Sam’s chest. The younger Winchester pulled back, startled, and stared down at himself.</p><p>The hilt of a blade protruded from the center of him: John Winchester’s silver special. His father’s hand still clutched the end of it.</p><p>“Dad?” he managed. There had to be an explanation. A trick. This was a setup to lure a demon. This was a fake knife. This was part of a ritual.</p><p>But something was very, very wrong inside him. And the vague discomfort around the wound was slowly beginning to turn to pain.</p><p>John was crying openly now.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he whispered.</p><p>Sam only had a second to think <em>oh my God, my Dad just killed me</em>, before his legs gave way. John caught him and cradled him close, bringing them both to the ground and holding his youngest over his lap.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m so, so sorry.”</p><p>Sam tried to make his jaw work, and found it couldn’t. His whole body had gone limp. His father was stroking his hair, brushing tears off his son’s cheeks.</p><p>“It’s okay,” he soothed. “It’s okay, Sammy. I’m right here. Let go, son.”</p><p>And Sammy did: the last of his breath sighed out of him, and his eyes stared up past his father to the overhead sky. John continued to stroke his hair, trying to force his own sobs to stay inside.</p><p>“There’s my boy,” he whispered, and carefully closed his son’s eyes. The shock, the confusion, the betrayal he’d seen in them would never leave his mind, no matter how long his soul burned.</p><p>He’d killed his own child.</p><p>He’d killed <em>Mary’s</em> child.</p><p>Never, ever, <em>ever</em> had he imagined it coming to this. Even when he’d struck his children, left them too long, frightened and intimidated them—it was necessary. He was preparing them for anything that could come their way, human or otherwise. Nothing could ever creep up on his boys. Nothing could take them from him.</p><p>With his eyes closed and body lax, Sam looked younger than his 22 years. His hair fell over his forehead. A small stream of blood was gathering at the side of his mouth.</p><p>John carefully lowered his boy to the ground, arranging him in a way that would be comfortable for a hunter’s funeral. Then he got to his feet, stumbled down to the water, and vomited.</p><p>Once. Twice. Three times. Then he thrashed the tainted water aside, plunged his face into the depths, and <em>howled</em>.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
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